


It might rain all day

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Ocean, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:57:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck takes the bus to the ocean on a rainy day. He gets wet. Bad luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It might rain all day

Chuck stared down into his bowl, absent. The spoon clinked against the ceramic with every bite.

Rain tapped the windows.

Chuck thought his cereal was too sweet, and soggy, but he ate it anyway. He was hungry, so early in the morning.

It might rain all day. But not harder than a drizzle.

When he was done, he put on his coat. Underneath, his shirt sleeves slid up to his elbows. He had to reach up inside his coat to pull his sleeves back down.

The door creaked as it opened, and as it closed. But the click as it shut behind Chuck—nearly inaudible. He locked the door, and after he made sure the knob didn't budge he cut across the lawn. Made his way down the sidewalk, to the bus stop.

The bus squeaked and rumbled, and swayed Chuck about in his seat. It smelled like mildew and cigarettes. The windows were obscured by little dots of whatever advertisement had been spread across the sides of the bus. It was too hot. Musty. The heater made a great deal of noise and made Chuck sweat under his coat.

The ride lasted forty minutes, but eventually the bus hissed to a stop near the boardwalk.

The smell of the ocean—salt, clean air. Dirt.

Chuck ate lunch in a small shop overlooking the beach. Just a small sandwich, on dark rye bread. Hot, watery coffee in a cup beside his plate. The shop was full of soft, sad music. Very quiet. No one else but the cashier, knitting blue and pink yarn into a scarf behind the register.

Chuck ate his sandwich slowly and stared out the window for what must have been a half an hour.

Once done, Chuck walked down the beach until he could stand just shy of the water. It lapped the sand with tiny noises. Seagulls flocked the rest of the gray beach, and drifted overhead. Shouted about whatever it was seagulls shouted about.

A water droplet landed on Chuck's forehead. At first he thought it might have been a bit of spray from the sea, blown in by the wind, but more followed in a distinct falling manner. More rain. Just a little, though. Just a slight drizzle.

Chuck closed his eyes. He liked the sound of the waves crashing on the sands, and in against themselves.

He looked up, in a moment. At the seagulls wheeling about, blots against the storm-white sky. He spent so long watching the birds, he didn't notice the rising tide of rougher water. Only the simple uptick in the breeze, causing the gulls to wobble on their wings.

One wave came waist-high, and knocked into Chuck so he stumbled. He stepped back, and a crab shell crunched under his foot. Embedded in the wet sand so deeply, the shell caught onto Chuck's shoe—he tripped, and fell.

The waves washed over him.

He let the waves cover him like a blanket. But not for too long. He stood, stumbled to his feet. Pushed his soaked hair back from his face and looked down at himself with a frown creasing his forehead. Too cold to be so wet, but no way to fix it.

Perhaps it was time to go home.

He waited for the bus only a few minutes, but long enough to get a good shiver going, jaw clenched to keep his teeth from clattering together. When the bus came, and he got on, he stood near the back door rather than sit down. No desire to squelch around in one of the ratty old seats, and he doubted the driver would like it if he got water all over everything. So he dripped on the floor, hand wrapped tight around one of the silver support bars. He wobbled every time the bus turned a corner.

This ride, the heat was off. Chuck continued to shiver almost as violently as out in the wind.

But not quite.

A little kid watched him. He ignored her.

Still damp when the bus stopped, Chuck hopped out—spared a wave for the driver but couldn't bring himself to say anything. His shoes squished, seeping water as he walked up the driveway. Like always, the door creaked as it opened and hushed when it shut.

Chuck took off half of his clothes right there in the hallway, eager to peel the wet fabric from his skin. He kept his underwear on, at least. Though they stuck to him like anything else. Chattering, he turned the thermostat up to seventy so he could warm up. Maybe dry off faster.

Once he had taken a hot, hot shower, and changed into a set of dry pajamas, Chuck climbed into bed. To warm up, or to nap. Perhaps both. Perhaps just to unwind himself into a loose pile of limbs. He pulled his blankets up and over, huddling in the muffled darkness as he listened to the heater blow.

The rain began to drum.

Chuck fell asleep curled into a ball.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on some class activity we did in my unpleasant creative writing/queer theory class. Notecards with random snippets. I didn't do much to flesh it out further than the snippets, and I changed the ambiguous main character (with no name, just "they") into Chuck as I kind of had him in mind doing the activity in the first place.


End file.
